Down South in Keysville
by Shostakovich
Summary: Keysville, Georgia, 1978. Meg moves down south and becomes everyone's new best friend. Until her friend Christine comes down. Between antiCatholicism and high school drama, how is Meg ever going to be able to listen to the Quintette du Hot club du France?
1. Chapter 1

Some (French) vocabulary and personages since I know I'd need it:

_Zut_, meaning 'dangit', 'gosh darn it', etc.

_Louis Vola_, a French bassist, was a part of the Quintette du Hot Club de France, a jazz band which existed from 1934 until 1939 at the start of the Second World War. The quintet was popular for Gypsy jazz.

_WASP_, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

_Maman_, meaning 'mom' in French.

Also, Meg is moving to Keysville, Georgia from Binghamton, New York.

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_1978_

It was _hot_ in the South. Her legs were sticking to the leather of the front seat. Uncomfortable.

...Heard the radio playing, scratchy. The news was on, men talking politics. Not exciting, she thought. Could do with some Cola, maybe water if Cola wasn't available. She wasn't used to the sticky hot, not like in the South. Awful hot down south, the people up North told her. Guess they'd been right. _Zut_.

"Thirteen miles, Meg," her mother said. The windows were rolled down and Madame Giry wore sunglasses. Maybe sun block too. Not for Meg, she was dark. Swarthy, her mother said. Mediterranean. Her father was Mediterranean. Jules, though he wasn't around. They'd gotten a divorce, ages ago. Meg did not remember him, though he was dark. She had a photo— black eyes and hair, like hers.

"How much longer, Maman?"

"Thirteen miles."

Too far. They were passing through a little town. Some run down houses were on the side of the road, peeling paint and broken gutters. Better houses closer to the town center, new shingles. Lace curtains hung in some windows. One little bakery had a statue of a plump baker holding a chalkboard sign outside. The sign read, "Daily special: Double Chocolate Torte!" Meg shifted in her seat, once, twice. The houses started getting more run down again.

"You can play around with the radio, Meg."

Meg spun the big dial between her spindly fingers, settling on 89.1 where some classical music played. A piano sonata, thought Meg, unless I'm wrong. Could do with some Cola. She tapped her fingers on the door to the piano playing over the radio. "Who is this?"

"Chopin, I believe. Meg, don't fidget, and sit up straight." Meg tried to align her spine perpendicular to the car seat. Not working. "Roll back your shoulders. Do you really call yourself a dancer?"

"Yes, Maman!" The corners of her mouth turned down. "We've been driving hours, and I'm thirsty and hot! I miss New York."

"Nothing you say is going to make me turn around, Meg." Madame Giry's mouth turned up. Her back was rounded against the seat. "Yes, this is Chopin."

Chopin, Beethoven, Louis Vola— it doesn't matter, really, Meg thought, as long as we get there soon. That Cola would be nice right now. Maybe it will start raining. That would be nice. _Zut_. Not enough clouds for rain.

"Five miles left, I think." Madame Giry ran her hand along the back of her neck and sighed. "Then tomorrow we all get to unpack." Meg asked about the furniture. "The company provided a service to move and unload the furniture, remember? We can move it around tomorrow. The rest of today is a lazy day, Meg, enjoy it."

"This is Mozart, right? Moonlight Sonata?" Madame Giry nodded, smiled. Meg felt better about herself. What's a little knowledge of dead composers between friends? Or mothers and daughters. Similar thing. Not the same.

Meg spotted a sign and read it aloud. "Entering Keysville!" _Finally_.

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Someone was moving into the old colonial. The company had sent a truck full of furniture that kicked up dust, some of which had gotten into the living room downstairs. His mother went and scolded the driver for driving too fast; Erik heard the whole thing. The whole bit was rather funny: this petite lady scolding a robust six-foot truck driver. And he called her ma'am and apologized, as any man would.

As any Southern man would, at any rate. The people up north and out west— they weren't cultured like the Southerners. If he went into a town in the north, he'd be beat up.

Well, they would try. Erik never got beaten up. He was thin, but strong; his mother said 'too strong' and his father said 'strong like a real man'. Erik was tall, too— one of the tallest in the county high school. And he would be a senior, which meant only one more year left.

_Finally_. He had taken his college boards, gotten teased for it. They stopped teasing him after he pulled the catgut out of his pocket. He wouldn't really strangle any of the losers at school, not about college boards. But it helped to keep them under control.

Besides, he couldn't go to the Paris Conservatory if he was in jail for murder. Not that it really was murder, if they deserved it. Some people did— that's what Erik's father thought. People who weren't like them, who weren't WASPs. That's what Erik was— a WASP, the best of the best.

And inside the 'best of the best', Erik was one of the best. He was strong, smart— not merely smart, but a genius, in plain terms.

Not to mention that he had passion, and he used all of his genius to pursue his passion: art. Erik lived for art; he was born for it, and he worshipped it more than any god. His family was Protestant, and Erik went to church until he convinced his parents that it was unnecessary. The choir was deplorable, and he found few of the Church melodies satisfactory.

At any rate, he didn't believe in God, so the rest was of little matter. Let the others, the fools, go to church, he thought. I'll be the better for time alone. This is my domain, and on Sunday mornings, I rule.

So on Sunday morning, the squat white two-story was all his— no one next door on either side; the neighbors at church and the other side unoccupied. But now, someone was moving in. Someone who was going to work for the company, of course, who else would move there else wise? The company was the only reason for people at all in Keysville, really. Even his father worked for the company. Dana Miles Walker, co-vice-president. That was his father's desk-marker, one of two in the carpeted office with very little on the walls in the company building.

Erik would have had a much more interesting desk-marker, though of course he would have no desk at all. Just a piano, and a drafting table, and instruments of every kind. A cat-basket, for the cat in the woods behind his house. His only confidante, the abandoned Persian: Ayesha. How she loved him!

And how Erik loved her, sweet Ayesha, who demanded little but attention. And he lavished her with attention, for only on her could he be truly himself. The others were a little afraid, all the time. Even his mother—

Well, Mariah was too weak to be anything but afraid of any man in her family. She might have been beaten as a child; Erik neither cared nor wanted to know, for he had a control over his mother that let him do anything. As long it didn't seem a sin to her, she would say yes, and yes again. His father Dana Miles was too proud: hubris, that was called. Beowulf had hubris, as did most. Erik had pride, but it was well founded; he had yet to be bested at anything that he had tried to do.

As far as the things he hadn't tried... Well, Erik knew he would excel in a debate room, or on a football field if he so desired. But such childlike parries were best suited for other people. Erik was worlds ahead of the others in his age group. And that only heightened the fear.

Erik hadn't met anyone new for a long time.

Maybe the new neighbors would be interesting.

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Sarah Li was flirting with Joey Burns.

No one was particularly surprised by the sight of them leaning against the chain-link fence behind home plate, chatting. Flirting. Joey Burns was the kind of guy who always latched onto Sarah Li: moderately good-looking, strong, usually into sports. Usually someone dim, but not foolish. Guys like Joey Burns were helpless against her charms. Probably every guy in Keysville, maybe even in all of Burke County, that knew her was a little in love with her.

Well, almost all. She did have two guy cousins, after all. And that Walker boy didn't like nobody, least of all a flirt like her.

She'd gone past his house, riding her bike to the park. There was a big truck in front of the empty colonial next to him, and his mother was scolding the truck driver about the dust it had kicked up. Sarah Li had almost laughed, but then hit a pothole and squealed instead.

Joey Burns was looking at her, with that secret smile boys wore when they had an irresistible offer. Sarah Li linked her hands behind her back and smiled up at Joey.

"There's this party tonight, out in Midville. Everyone says it's gonna be great."

"Uh huh." Everyone knew about the before-school parties in Midville. They were an unspoken tradition, because it wouldn't do to go back to school without having hangovers, would it?

"Wanna come with me? I can take you."

"Oh, would you? Thank you so much, Joey! You're such a sweetheart." It was almost funny to see how Joey, one of the retrievers on the football team, blushed when Sarah Li hugged him and pecked his cheek. "When can I expect you tonight?" She swung his hand in her own, grinning.

"Eight thirty, maybe quarter a' nine."

"Thank you so much! I'll see you then." Sarah Li gave him another peck on the cheek and then scampered off to say hello to another boy, who had just arrived but was already being surrounded by a gaggle of girls.

Sarah Li almost skipped over to him. Raoul Deacon was, by far, the best guy in Keysville. Possibly in Burke county, too, if not the whole world. He was gorgeous, in a word, not to mention rich. Plus, he was polite. A real keeper. All the girls sighed to themselves when he flashed his smile.

And then he spotted Sarah and smiled at her-- at her! -- and came to greet her. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Sarah joined him as he walked over to home plate, and she bumped her hip against his fondly. "You hear about the people movin' in near the Walkers?"

"No, who's moving in?" Raoul glanced at her from under the brim of his navy baseball cap.

"I dunno. I was hopin' you'd know. You never make up these fabr'cated stories like some people." Raoul laughed.

"I'll let you know if I hear anything with a plausible source, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks." Raoul waved to her and bounded off to join the other guys, and Sarah Li sighed. "He's perfect, ain't he?" she said, to no one in particular.

"That's for sure. Can't ya hook me up with him?"

Sarah knew her cousin's voice in an instant. "Jamie, you're a little kid. Everyone calls you 'Little Jamie' for a reason."

"Just cause I'm small doesn't mean I'm not almost fifteen. I'm more mature than that dumb girl Sarah Li." Jamie Reid poked her older cousin.

"I'm thinkin' if you don't keep off those jibes you're gonna be even littler."

"What's that s'posed ta mean?"

"Well, your eye'll be puffed up, but I'll squish the rest of you like a pancake." Sarah Li pulled her hair out of its elastic and braided it, holding the little elastic between her teeth.

"Ya couldn't beat me up if ya tried," Jamie said. "I live with two older guys, and I know how ta beat 'em both up." Sarah cocked her eyebrows. "And at the same time, too."

"That's bull. And I'm saving Raoul for myself. He's too perfect to give up for some nutty sophomore like you. Besides, maybe a cute boy'll move in next to the Walkers." Jamie snorted. Sarah Li pulled a piece of gum from her pocket and offered her cousin one. They leaned against the chain-link fence, chewing.

And watching the guys.

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Christine felt out of place in the hospital. She felt it to be far too similar to a graveyard, and yet no one was dead. But her father was dying, and that made the whole world a graveyard. Especially here, where everyone knew he was dying, and acted like there was no hope.

But there was hope! Christine saw the hope in her father's eyes, even if it was deep down, and she knew that he would fight to the very end. He missed he— he was stranded in a hospital bed, and she with the neighbors. She had been staying at the Giry's house, but they had left her for Georgia, down south, far away, and so she became a huddled mass of silence and prayer.

Christine went to church daily, where she prayed for her father and went to confession to sob her unworthiness to the wonder that was her father, the wonder that would soon be no more. And school started the very next day. Christine didn't know how she would be able to cope. Not only had her best friend moved, but her father was dying, and she was living with people she didn't particularly hold any strong feelings for.

Mr. and Mrs. Murphy were very nice to her, but Christine was too shy, too timorous to accept their kindness. Everyone she had loved was gone or leaving, from Meg to her mother to Christine's own mother to her father. The two Murphys were thankful that Christine did seem to like their son Aidan very much.

_Aidan_. The poor boy. He had Down's syndrome, but he was so sweet. He loved to hear Christine sing to him at night, to put him to sleep. And his eyes would sparkle when she told him the same stories her father had told her— the princess, and the goblins, and the Angel of Music. Christine didn't believe in them anymore, but she knew the ideas of the story were true. And Aidan loved the stories, even if he didn't understand all the words. Christine pitied the boy; how would he ever be happy? Would he ever believe in angels?

Sometimes, when she sang to him, he looked at her in awe. She would kiss his little forehead, and his little nose, and smile into his big blue eyes. They were blue, like forget-me-nots.

The only blue where she stood was in the nurses' uniforms, and sometimes a folder was blue, or a visitor would have a blue purse, or jeans on. Christine was wearing a white dress, and her gold cross. Her father was going to the restroom, with the help of a nurse.

The nurse came out and smiled at Christine kindly. "He's all yours, dear. Just push that button if you need us." Christine nodded and clutched her things to her chest, and then she dashed into her father's room and suddenly she was weeping atop his weak form and the whole world collapsed down upon her.

Was all loss this painful?


	2. Chapter 2

Some more vocabulary and personages since I know I'd need it:

_Zut_, meaning 'dangit', 'gosh darn it', etc.

_Louis Vola_, a French bassist, was a part of the Quintette du Hot Club de France, a jazz band which existed from 1934 until 1939 at the start of the Second World War. The quintet was popular for Gypsy jazz.

_WASP_, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

_Quoi?_, meaning 'what?' in French.

Also, Erik's parents are Dana Miles Walker and Mariah Walker. When Christine is reading, she quotes from 'The Three Little Pigs'. The lullaby she sings is a French lullaby called "Dodo, l'enfant do" ("Sleepy time, the child sleeps").

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

Erik watched from his bedroom window as a silver Ford parked in front of the old colonial next door. The driver's door opened, and Erik saw a middle-aged woman, her brown hair graying, getting out. She spoke to the truck driver, and then beckoned to the car. The passenger door opened, and Erik stared.

A girl got out, with black hair and swarthy skin. Her short height did not hide her strong body— a dancer's body. But Erik stared at her hands. Even though she would be tiny next to him, her fingers were as long as his. She had the hands of a pianist, and Erik yearned to know if she played.

He snapped his eyes back to the woman when she called out to the girl; her daughter, Erik presumed. Likely the father would come down later. The two went inside the house, and Erik turned away to sit at his piano, mindlessly tapping out Für Elise with one hand. The other hand marked some notes on a manuscript in pencil.

The distant sound of a door slamming caught his ear and he stopped playing. His parents were home: Dana Miles and Mariah Walker. Erik went downstairs to greet them, silent as always.

"Hi," he said. Mariah Walker jumped, her usual reaction to realizing that her son was mere inches behind her without being noticed. She greeted him after calming, kissing his cheek. His mask. Dana Miles came in, cheerful; he raised a hand to his son with a grin.

"Have a good morning, son?" Erik grunted an affirmative. Dana Miles chuckled. "Glad to hear it. Say, did our new neighbors arrive yet?"

"Yes."

"Mariah, why don't we invite them for lunch? I'll go greet them. Like to come, Erik?"

Tempted as he was, Erik shook his head and disappeared back upstairs. If they were coming to lunch, he knew he couldn't be there. What would they think? Their cooky neighbor who wears a mask. Perfect.

No, it was much better to wait and learn about them, and know how to deal with them. He would listen. And wait.

When the right moment came, Erik would take it.

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"'And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down!'"

Aidan Murphy laughed at Christine's mannerisms; she knew he didn't understand what she was saying. She smiled, staring down at the book. The artist had made the wolf scraggly and thin, and the pigs plump and very edible looking. To a carnivore, at least. In real life, those pigs would probably die from obesity.

Christine wondered why any artist would do something so atrocious to their art, but she pushed the thoughts aside as just her vegetarian conscious getting to her.

She finished the story and hoisted six-year old Aidan onto her hip, humming a random tune as she sat him on his bed. He hummed along, though he couldn't quite keep up with her. Christine switched over to 'Twinkle, Twinkle,' and they hummed together. Aidan crawled under his blue comforter; Christine smiled down at him and began to sing.

_Dodo, l'enfant do,_

_L'enfant dormira bien vite_

_Dodo, l'enfant do_

_L'enfant dormira bientôt._

_Une poule blanche_

_Est là dans la grange._

_Qui va faire un petit coco_

_Pour l'enfant qui va fair' dodo._

_Dodo, l'enfant do,_

_L'enfant dormira bien vite_

_Dodo, l'enfant do_

_L'enfant dormira bientôt._

_Tout le monde est sage_

_Dans le voisinage_

_Il est l'heure d'aller dormir_

_Le sommeil va bientôt venir._

Aidan gave a little hum, and Christine kissed his little forehead and his little nose and each cheek. He closed his eyes, and Christine waited on the edge of his bed, humming, until he was asleep. Mrs. Murphy came in just as Christine was getting up, and Aidan's mother smiled.

"You have an amazing gift, Christine," Mrs. Murphy said. "Your voice... It's magnificent. Like an angel."

Christine blushed. "Thank you." She slipped out the door to the guest bedroom to give Mrs. Murphy some time with her son.

It was nice, really, to be able to see a mother and child together, outside of pictures of Madonna and Jesus. Christine wished it could have been her own mother comforting her, with her father dying—

"No!" Christine squeezed her eyes shut. "He's not dying. He can't be." A tear fell, and then two more. "There's still hope. Oh, Papa!"

A dozen tears, and counting.

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To Meg's surprise, all the furniture was in the right room by six o'clock, and she and her mother managed to eat some sandwiches in the kitchen for dinner. Meg decided the water in New York was worlds better than in Georgia.

The neighbors had invited them over for lunch, to "share the Sunday meal"; they had politely refused, but promised to come the next week. Meg didn't know why, but she supposed in small towns, neighbors were friendly.

Not like Binghamton at all. I just hope the school isn't too far behind, Meg thought, or they'll have to put me in senior classes. Maybe the seniors'll be smarter. Meg almost laughed; their neighbors, the Walkers, were _happy_ to live in such a run-down place like Keysville. Meg thought she'd die when she first heard the news. Leaving Christine, especially with her father the way he was— it didn't make Meg feel any better about the whole thing. Her mom wasn't too happy about Gustav Daaé's illness, but she said this job was the best she was going to get.

So off the two of them went, to come here, where Meg was busy brushing her hair and staring out the window. She started when she realized someone was staring back at her, and she blushed to see she'd been staring in one of the Walkers' windows. Meg gave a halfhearted wave.

The Walker opened his window and motioned for her to do the same. Meg did and stuck her head out the window, her chin in her hands. The other person was a boy, but that was about all of what Meg could figure out.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," the Walker said. Meg flinched— had he been a girl, he would have sounded like Christine. The musical sweep, the clear enunciation, the silky smoothness of it all was the same. Yet his voice was strong, not like Christine's hesitant one.

"I'm Meg," she said after a pause.

"Erik. Do you play piano?"

"What?" Meg gave a little laugh. "Not anymore."

"Why? Weren't you good at it?"

"Sure I was good. It took too much time, that's all." Erik snorted; Meg scowled. "Hey, dance is a pretty rigorous hobby."

"And are you any good at that?"

Meg lifted her chin. "I was one of the best teenaged dancers in New York, once upon a time."

"New York? Tell me about it."

She couldn't resist telling him. "I'm from Binghamton, but the real city, it's huge. New York, it's just always alive, you know? All the time. The musical theater is amazing, not to mention the music scene." Meg could almost see Times Square, but decided Erik was more intriguing. "Do _you_ play piano?"

"I play anything that makes music."

"Even double base? I love double base. Oh my god, Louis Vola is my hero." Meg clasped her hands in front of her heart, sighing wistfully. "Awesome bassist, he is."

"I'm sure he is."

"Was."

"Was, then. When did you stop playing?"

"What?"

"Piano, of course."

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe four or five years ago? No, six, I think. I'm not sure." Meg frowned. "Yeah, six." ...Pause. "Any particular reason?"

"You have long fingers," Erik said; was he testing her? Meg wasn't sure.

"I do. Like a spider or something." She hesitated. "Or an octopus. Nothing wrong with spiders or octopi, is there? I can make other similes, if you like."

"No, that's quite alright. Spiders are my sort of thing."

"Do you weave things?"

"No." Amusement.

"Are you, like, a parasite or something? Wrap up your pray in your invisible web and then eat them alive? Shelob?"

"You've read Tolkien?"

"You have? Wow. I never thought I'd meet someone who knew who Shelob was down here." Meg clapped her hand to her mouth, suddenly realizing she was being extremely rude. "I didn't mean it like that—"

"No, I know what you mean," Erik said drily. "We're more polite than folks up north, but you guys are a lot better read. And Tolkien's not so amazing at writing. Just at linguistics."

"Tolkien is my god, Erik Walker."

"Hm. Do you want to start learning piano again, Meg..."

"Giry? I'd love to. Do you know any good piano teachers around? Cheap ones?"

"I know someone who will teach you for free."

...Pause. "_Quoi_? For free? Who'll do _that_?"

"I will."


End file.
